


The Drummer Boy

by EnricoDandolo



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst, F/F, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Politics, Sibling Incest, War, incest guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:53:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnricoDandolo/pseuds/EnricoDandolo
Summary: Empress Elsa did not smile at her family, nor even look at her sister, wife and queen. She was paler than ever, and a thin layer of frost covered the doorframe where she had grasped it for support. Her ice-blue eyes were wide, manic, as she stared straight at Ingrid.Her voice was quiet, but sharp as a blade. “Never sing that song again.”
Relationships: Anna/Elsa (Disney)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 49





	The Drummer Boy

[Ich armer Tamboursg’sell.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuFlOeZNQ9w)  
Man führt mich aus dem G’wölb,  
wär ich ein Tambour blieben,  
dürft ich nicht gefangen liegen.

  
O Galgen, du hohes Haus,  
du siehst so furchtbar aus,  
ich schau dich nicht mehr an,  
weil i weiß, daß i g’hör dran.

  
Wenn Soldaten vorbeimarschieren,  
bei mir nit einquartiern.  
Wenn sie fragen wer i g’wesen bin:  
Tambour von der Leibkompanie.

| 

Woe is me, poor drummer-boy.  
They lead me from my cell,  
had I remained a drummer,  
I’d not have been in prison.

  
O gallows, you lofty house,  
how grim you seem to me,  
I’ll look at you no more,  
for I know you’re meant for me.

  
When the soldiers march past  
to quarters other than mine,  
and when they ask who I was:  
Drummer to the royal guard.  
  
---|---  
  
Little Ingrid didn’t remember the words to the song, and she didn’t trust herself to make up her own, so she stuck to humming. She was good at humming: it filled the silence, and she liked it better than singing, though _maman_ always said she had a beautiful singing voice. There was something about singing that made her feel uneasy, and it was not just her strict old music tutor. It made her feel cold and small and afraid, like stumbling through a dark forest all alone. Humming was fine, though. The song was a bit sad and slow, but she hummed it a bit faster and it sounded much better and heroic.

With a critical eye, like a general inspecting his troops, she looked around the room. The plot had reached its climax, with Sir Jorgenbjorgen riding up to the gates on his trusty steed (her rocking horse) of the evil emperor’s castle (her closet) to challenge him to single combat for the love of Princess Buttonface. She really needed to come up with a better name for the princess at some point, but not while her life hung in the balance!

Deciding quickly, she grabbed a handful of tin toy soldiers, brightly painted in white and blue coats. “Mwahaha!” she boomed as the evil emperor, moving the soldiers forward in front of the castle gates. “You have come to your DOOM, Sir Jorgenbjorgen! Princess Buttonface betrayed you, she has told us your secret weakness!”

Sir Jorgenbjorgen gasped. “How dare you! My princess would never give up my secret!”

Princess Buttonface appeared on the ramparts of the castle. “Forgive me, Sir Jorgenbjorgen! The emperor told me the truth about you! You never did do your Latin homework! I can never love you again! You stinker!” Ingrid giggled at that.

“A vile calumny!” She liked that word. It was a good word. She should use it more. I shall prove my devotion to you, and my Latin! _En garde!_ Take this! Take that! _Amō, amās, amat, amāmus, amātis …_ ”

A voice from the doorway tore her from her play. “Y’know, when I used to play with Sir Jorgenbjorgen, he almost never did Latin conjugation in battle.”

Ingrid’s eyes lit up, she dropped Sir Jorgenbjorgen and the soldiers and ran over to the woman who had entered her room. “ _Maman_!” She tackled into her, and _maman_ slung her arm around her, fingers running through her hair. “I’ve been waiting for you. I already finished all my homework.”

“So I see,” Queen Anna said, gently cupping the back of her head and kissing her forehead. “I’m very proud of you. You’re much more diligent than I was at your age. I was a real brat—you can ask Gerda.”

Ingrid made a face. “Nuh uh,” she said. “You were the prettiest, smartest, beautifullest princess ever!”

_Maman_ grinned. “That so, huh? Because I know a princess who’s even prettier, smarter, and beautifuller than me. Wanna know who she is?” Somewhat suspiciously, Ingrid nodded. “She’s my little ticklebug!” She dove in, and soon Ingrid was shaking from laughter as _maman_ tickled her all over, carrying her to the bed in her arm.

Finally, _maman_ let her go and sat on the edge of the bed. Ingrid looked up at her. She was the prettiest queen ever, she knew—she’d seen the portraits of other queens, and by and large they were old and pudgy and serious. _Maman_ never was serious for long, except for Those Days, and even then she always had a smile and a kiss for her. Ingrid wished she were as pretty as _maman_ , with that lustrous red hair and those deep blue eyes and freckles, even if now she looked tired and worn-out from the day’s business. Instead, Ingrid’s hair was a dirty blond, like Count Nordenskjold’s silly little poodle, her eyes plain brown, and there was nary a freckle in sight. She had lots and lots of beautiful dresses and jewellery, but she never looked as pretty as _maman_ did in muddy boots and a dusty uniform, the empty right sleeve tucked into the belt. But today, dark lines marked Queen Anna’s face, ink splotches stained the hand stroking her hair, and her braid was dishevelled.

“Are you okay, _maman_?”

The queen smiled at her and kissed her brow. “It’s fine, little bug. Just had a long day.”

“Oh. Work?”

“Work, yeah. I’m alright. Just had a long and unpleasant chat with Prince von Metternich.”

Ingrid tried to remember who that was. She didn’t know any of the foreign ambassadors personally, but her tutors had had her studying politics. He had a German name, so she was pretty sure he was the ambassador from Østerrike. All she knew about Østerrike was that it lay far to the south, that it was very important, and that its emperor had been very mean to _maman_ and the empress. So she said: “You should just … kick him in the butt. Or, uh, put peas on his chair. Fredrik did that to Mr. Huitfeldt yesterday, it was really gross!” She giggled.

“Hmm, I like that.” Anna plopped herself down on the bed next to her, and Ingrid snuggled up to her _maman._ “Or a bucket of whitewash above my office door when he next comes to complain about Schleswig. Or snow down his collar. Oh, I’m sorry, my bug.” At that, Ingrid had stilled and begun to shiver slightly. It was warm in the palace, the fireplace brightly lit, but just outside the windows raged the blizzard. She could virtually feel the wet cold running down her spine, and the darkness was not far behind. “Shhh,” _maman_ hushed, gently stroking her back and hair with her warm, gentle hand. “It’s alright. I’m here.”

Ingrid didn’t like the cold. She was never quite comfortable, even wrapped up in heavy coats and furs. The snow was worse, though—when she had first come to Arendelle, she had cried every time there had been a sudden snowstorm or iceflower in the sky. She was a big girl now and no longer cried (much), but she still hated and feared looking at, let alone being in, the snow that blanketed the streets and roofs outside the palace, or the piles of it that could be found throughout the halls of the palace when the empress was in a foul mood.

_Mother,_ she mentally corrected herself. _She’s my mother, and I need to call her that._ She loved _maman,_ she really did, but Emp— _mother_ always scared her a little. Unlike _maman’s_ , mother’s hands and kisses were cold as ice, even through her gloves, and even though she knew that her mother loved her, Ingrid never could manage to be at ease in her presence in the same way that she could around _maman_. She always felt like mother expected something of her—to be a good princess, to do well at her studies, to behave appropriately. Ingrid would do her best, and mother would look down at her and smile and refrain from hugging her so as not to scare her. Sometimes, Ingrid knew, mother would cry and _maman_ would hug and kiss her, but never in front of Ingrid, and she knew that she—and her fears—were part of the reason why. Mother was away right now, off in the south with her army somewhere, and Ingrid could not honestly say that she missed their silent luncheons.

Eventually, she had calmed down enough for _maman_ to release her from her embrace. Her smile was sad, and Ingrid felt a pang of guilt. “Oh, my darling little bug, what will we do with you?” She bit her lip, and _maman_ took her hand. “It’s gonna be alright, Ingrid. Your mother and I love you so much. You know that, right?” She nodded. “You are our brave little girl and you’re going to be an empress one day. Nothing is going to change that, okay?”

She sniffed a little. “Okay.”

_Maman_ squeezed her hand, then got up. “Now, I think it’s your bedtime, don’t you think?”

Ingrid pouted, but mainly for effect, and let _maman_ help her change into her nightgown and tuck her into bed. Once she was comfortable under the blankets, she asked: “May I have a story?”

The queen smirked. “A story, huh? You sure you don’t want me to call Gerda? Gerda tells _amazing_ stories.”

She giggled at that, knowing _maman_ was only teasing her. “I want to hear a story from _you._ ”

“Alright then. Say your prayers and I’ll give you a story.”

Obediently, Ingrid folded her hands above the blanket and closed her eyes. “Dear Lord Jesus Christ, please watch over me as I sleep. Let your angels send me sweet dreams and let me awaken in the morning safe and sound. Also, please let _maman_ rest well after her long day of work. Please watch over my friends and my tutors and the servants and the country. Oh, and keep mother safe, wherever she is, and her armies, too.” Silently, she added: _And please watch over_ Mama _and tell her I love her and haven’t forgotten her._ “Amen.” She opened her eyes, and _maman_ pressed a kiss on her brow.

A lot of the memories from her old life were hazy for her, but they weren’t all gone. _Maman_ and mother seemed to believe she could barely remember _Mama,_ that she had either been too little when she had died or locked away the memories where they couldn’t hurt her. It was true that she did not remember the name her _Mama_ had called her, or much of the language she had spoken. But she did remember some things— _Mama’s_ smile, weary and gap-toothed, but warm and loving. The scent of her hair, straw and sweat and pea soup. She remembered going to bed hungry more nights than not, and _Mama_ rocking her to sleep with a song. She remembered the soldiers and their laughter, the bloody snow—

Ingrid shuddered as the memory surfaced and nestled more closely to _maman’s_ warm body. She had to try and keep her eyes open, she knew, or the images would be back— _Mama_ lying in the snow, the big grinning soldier with the sideburns, the raging blizzard lashing her little body with snow, her terror when she had looked up to see the woman who would become her mother mounted on her charger, covered in ice and gore—

She shook, suddenly feeling as though she was freezing, lying under a blanket of snow rather than down. _Maman_ gently stroked her head and, in an attempt to calm herself, one of _Mama’s_ songs came to her lips, the words emerging unbidden from her memory, though she could scarce understand the meaning. _“Ich armer T-tamboursg’sell … m-man führt mich aus dem G’wölb …_ ” Ingrid barely noticed _maman_ tensing up through the haze of tears. _“Wär ich ein Tambour b-blieben … d-dürft ich nicht … gefangen liegen …_ ”

“Stop.” All of a sudden, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

Ingrid looked up, blinked through the tears. _Maman_ sat up in the bed next to her, delight plain on her face. “Elsa! You’re back!”

In the doorway, still wearing a deep blue hussar’s dolman, snow on her boots and a pelisse slung over her shoulder, ice crystals in the fur lining, stood her mother, by the Grace of God empress of all the Northlands, queen of Denmark and Sweden, queen-consort of Arendelle, protector of the German Confederation. The ice queen. The scourge of Europe. The devil incarnate. Her mother.

Empress Elsa did not smile at her family, nor even look at her sister, wife and queen. She was paler than ever, and a thin layer of frost covered the doorframe where she had grasped it for support. Her ice-blue eyes were wide, manic, as she stared straight at Ingrid.

Her voice was quiet, but sharp as a blade. “Never sing that song again.”

His name was Nils Andersen, and he was a regimental drummer in the 2nd (Queen’s Own) Regiment of Foot Guards.

This was not due to any special talent or accomplishment on his part, God forbid. His mother had, through much pain and difficulty, brought him up to be honest, humble and courteous, but had—by her own admission—been unable to instil much sense into his thick skull. When he had become an adult and proved unable to hold down any apprenticeship for more than a few weeks before his frustrated masters sent him off, his mother had commended his soul to God and sent him to the army. “At least there you won’t need to think,” she had said, “just obey. Be polite, eager, and pray that God protect our young Queen Elsa. At least she won’t be sending you off to war. And above all, remember to be honest. Liars go to Hell.” So he had gone up to the recruiting officer, taken the queen’s shilling, and sworn to loyally serve Her Majesty.

Nils was broad-shouldered and strong from hard work, and at six foot one towered over most of the other recruits. The recruiting officer approved and marked him down for the grenadier company of the 2nd Foot Guards. He received the guard’s green uniform tunic with purple piping and a musket, as well as a bearskin cap that made his head hurt from its weight. It soon emerged, however, that he had what the drum major of the regimental band called “a dull and unimaginative disposition”, which (he decreed) made him ideally suited to the task of beating a drum. “Fact is,” he had said, “the lad’s too simple to play out of time.”

This arrangement suited Nils fine. He enjoyed the sound of the drums and fife, even if it took him a lot of time to learn any new marches or signals. Additionally, it meant that he got to avoid a lot of the more unpleasant duties the regular infantry were saddled with, and a little extra pay to send home to his mother.

It also meant that he got to see the queen and princess a lot. The first time Nils had seen Queen Elsa had been shortly after he had finished his training, when the Queen’s Own had provided the honour guard for a state visit by some foreign prince. The queen had climbed out of her gilded carriage at the harbour, and he had forgotten how to breathe for an instant. He knew that she was pretty, of course, having seen her image on coins and in newspaper drawings. He also knew that she had special powers given to her by Almighty God. Reverend Hansen had said so, and his mother had crossed herself and uttered a gloomy prayer.

But he had never known that a person could be so … so … so queenly. Dressed in a gleaming gown of pure ice that made him blush for how much of her it revealed, she still carried herself with as much confidence as if she had worn plate armour or ermine robes of state. The grace with which she had descended the steps of her carriage had been matched only by the dignity she had brought to inspecting the honour guard, which in turn paled before the elegance of the slight flick of her slender wrist when she had offered the visitor her hand to kiss. She had let her gaze move along the faces of the honour guard, inspecting each man in turn, and he had stood up even straighter than before. He had never been prouder of serving his queen than that moment. He wondered if the queen being sent by God to rule over them made her an angel. She certainly had seemed to him a sacred creature.

If the queen was an angel, then the princess was at least a saint. She was always laughing and smiling and making others do so in turn. In the summer, she would walk through the town, talking and listening to high and low alike, and each and every person she spoke to would walk away with their head held high and sunlight in their hearts. In the winter, when snow weighed down their bearskins and every breath crystallised in the air, the princess would be there with a mug of hot coffee or mulled wine, a kind word, and a warm handshake. She seemed to know the names of everyone, whether they were in the guard, on the palace staff, or just a regular citizen of the town. Once, Nils had held open a door for her, and she had smiled at him like the Blessed Virgin herself.

It was then customary among the men of the 2nd Foot Guards to make a game of trying to outdo each other with tales of such encounters with the queen or the princess, and marks of royal favour. Nils sometimes had the impression that, were the two of them regular folk rather than their queen and crown princess, half the men in the regiment might have been in love with one or the other, even those with sweethearts or wives of their own. Nils rarely had occasion to contribute much. He had found that many of his fellows would exaggerate or even make up tales, but he himself considered this dishonest. Liars went to Hell, and he had no intention of doing so.

One night in 1845, after the bugler had blown the _tappenstrek_ and the men of his barracks were getting ready for bed, one of his comrades, Grenadier Hans Hanssen, spoke up. “I stood guard outside the queen’s study this afternoon,” he said, to get the game started. “The minister of commerce went in around 3pm and came out an hour later looking like a kicked puppy. I swear, he must have gotten this close to having ice hurled at him.” There was general chuckling, and agreement that this was a credible anecdote. The queen tended to be dignified and restrained both in public and in private, but everyone knew of some occasion on which she had made grown government ministers shiver in terror.

“That’s nothing,” said Corporal Ole Larsen. “Just yesterday, when I was standing watch in the gardens, Princess Anna came by on her way to the greenhouse. She was wearing that hot little green number—the one that looks like a nightgown, y’know.” There was some appreciative whistling, which Nils found a little odd. Nothing had actually happened yet. “So anyway, there I was minding my own business, when the princess walks up to me. Asks how my day’s going, that sort of thing.” Nils nodded at that, that sounded like Princess Anna. “And then, out of the blue, she says, ‘Corporal Ole, I see you standing out here every day, doing your duty. I just wanted to thank you for your devotion.’ And then she stood on her tiptoes, leaned in and …” Someone threw a boot at him as he was interrupted by jeers and mockery. This was not the first time they had heard a story like this, though all agreed Corporal Ole had told the lie well.

It was then that, for the first time, Nils Andersen decided to try his hand at the game. He was no good at telling stories, and he had no desire to lie, but he did have a story of an encounter that had the benefit of being both true and wholesome. “Talk about it all you like,” he said, scoldingly, “but we all know Her Highness ain’t gonna consort with a lout like you. Now listen to this, alright? This happened three weeks ago. So I was makin’ my rounds through the gardens when I thought I saw a light in the windows of the old Turkish Pavilion.” Large parts of the palace grounds were almost never used these days, a holdover from the reign of the reclusive old King Agnarr. The Turkish Pavilion was a remote outbuilding badly in need of repair, and rarely saw a visitor. “Right, so I figure maybe it’s some poor sop lookin’ for a warm place to sleep but suppose I better make sure it ain’t someone breakin’ in to do some mischief. So I have a look in through the window, and it’s Her Majesty and the princess lyin’ on a couch together and embracin’! They must’ve been playing some sort of game, ‘cause they were both naked but for their drawers, beggin’ your pardon—so I quickly looked away, thankin’ God that our queen and princess get along so well—why are y’all lookin’ at me like that?”

It took some time for the case of Drummer Nils Andersen to make its way through the military. What might have been taken as a tasteless and outrageous, but not actionable bit of barracks banter was compounded by his recalcitrant insistence that his tale was true, and that anyone who dared to call him a liar was welcome to taste his fists. The day after, when the information made its way to Captain Otto Holmlund, commander of the 2nd’s grenadier company, he ordered the drummer Nils Andersen to be given fifty strokes of the lash in front of the assembled company for conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline. On the advice of the drum major, who recommended Nils as a gentle and well-behaved if simple-minded soldier, Captain Holmlund left it at that and an admonition not to repeat his lies.

“But it’s true, God be my witness,” said Nils, tears in his eyes, and collapsed.

So Captain Holmlund ordered the drummer Nils Andersen to be imprisoned at Arenfjord Fortress, and convened a court martial on the charges of lesé majesté, sedition, and obscenity.

His name was Johan Christian Asbjørnsen, and he was a reporter. He was also recently out of a job.

Very recently, he grumbled to himself as he picked up the shoebox containing the personal belongings he had kept on his desk. Eight years he had slaved away at the _Aftenbladet,_ first as a legman, then as a copy boy, before he had finally gotten to the reporters’ desk. For eight years, he had sought out stories and news wherever he could, chasing after carriages, attending court hearings, and spending days upon days talking to the most disagreeable characters imaginable.

He had written down whatever he heard, and when there had been nothing to write about, he engineered events himself. His four-column article about a volcanic eruption in the South Pacific had been reprinted by most other Arendellian papers, as well as the _Fyens Stiftstidende_ all the way in the Southern Isles, and all it had taken was an afternoon at the public library, a twenty-minute conversation with an English sea captain, and eight _skillings_ worth of brandy to keep him talking. It might not actually have happened, but it _could_ have happened and, more importantly, the _Aftenbladet’s_ readers had believed it. For several weeks afterward the latest updates from the Dutch East Indies had reliably filled column space.

One particularly slow news day, he had bought a recently executed convict’s severed hand from the royal headsman, chopped off the fingers, and dropped all but one in the fjord. Then he had taken the remaining finger back to his desk and written a long article about this discovery, speculating as to whose it might have been and why the constabulary had not reported a missing person. Over the next few days, two of the other fingers had been returned to the _Aftenbladet’s_ offices by concerned readers, each in turn shedding further light on the mystery and eventually leading to Asbjørnsen castigating the failure of the constabulary to investigate the matter in a timely fashion in a biting editorial. In short, he had provided _value_ to the _Aftenbladet_.

And now he was out on the street.

For years, the _Aftenbladet_ had been engaged in a brutal rivalry with the _Morgenposten_ , its biggest competitor. When the _Morgenposten_ criticised a minister or member of the Riksdag, the _Aftenbladet_ would endorse them. When the _Aftenbladet_ spoke up in favour of this bill or that, the _Morgenposten_ would stridently oppose it. On the face of it, the _Aftenbladet_ generally aligned itself with the court, the nobility, the civil service and the church, while the _Morgenposten_ stood with the educated middle class, the industrialist and mercantile bourgeois, and the Riksdag _._ In actual fact, the _Morgenposten’s_ position was whatever opposed the _Aftenbladet_ , while the _Aftenbladet_ opposed anything related to the _Morgenposten._ In this way, both papers profited and grew their readership.

Recently, however, the _Morgenposten_ had begun to outpace the _Aftenbladet’s_ circulation. The writing had been on the wall for some time: Asbjørnsen still cursed his editor for refusing to publish anything about the rumours that Queen Elsa had caused the Great Freeze for several days. The _Morgenposten_ had run with it, releasing one special edition after another, culminating in a series of engravings depicting Arendelle covered in ice and snow, the queen’s ice palace in the mountains, and the defeat of the treacherous Prince Hans. By this point, the _Aftenbladet_ had still been speculating on freak natural phenomena and meteorological accidents.

And now—in the words of the _Aftenbladet’s_ editor-in-chief—it had become an unfortunate necessity to streamline the paper’s newsroom and allow several of their esteemed colleagues to seek new opportunities. Asbjørnsen had been one of the hacks to be let go. Nevermind that he had easily four times the talent of Jespersen, the new hire who’d gone to school with the owner’s son.

Stewing over this, Asbjørnsen made his way down the street from the _Aftenbladet’s_ offices, carrying his shoe box. It was too early to return home—Mistress Gudrun didn’t like her lodgers to be in their rooms during the day, and he was far from keen to be questioned about his future job prospects. So he went down to another favourite haunt of his, _Den Blå Løven_. It was around lunchtime, so when he entered the beer garden, he already found a number of clerks, civil servants, and shop owners seated on benches in the shade of the linden trees, enjoying the restaurant’s famous poached cod.

Asbjørnsen took a seat with a view of the street and ordered a pint and a bowl of lapskaus. Another thing he’d have to pass on until he was back on his feet. Maybe he could go back to doing freelance work while looking for another paper to take him on.

By the time his food arrived, the beer garden had begun to fill up with the lunchtime crowd. A gaggle of government clerks from the Ministry of Auditing. A fidgety housemaid sent to fetch a packed lunch for her master’s table. A trio of guard grenadiers claimed the table next to him, talking obnoxiously loudly. Asbjørnsen was considering leaving early to avoid them when something they were saying caught his interest. “… damn shame, though. Poor kid’s too simple to know what he was even talking about, let alone why he’s being punished for it.”

“I gotta wonder, though,” another grenadier mused. “What if there’s something to it? The idiot was insisting it was true all the way through his punishment, and he’s too unimaginative to make something like that up. Maybe he really did see the queen and—I mean, what he said.”

_Oh no, don’t stop there._ The guardsmen turned their talk towards other matters, but Asbjørnsen’s interest had been piqued. He signalled the waitress. “Another round for the valiant gentlemen of the guard.” The soldiers gave him an appreciative nod, and he made his way over to them. “Pardon the interruption,” he said, “I couldn’t help but overhear. It sounds as though one of your comrades got himself in a spot of trouble for saying the wrong thing …”

He put on his best Sunday suit, borrowed a battered leather briefcase from a neighbour, and made his way along the fjord. Arenfjord Fortress sat high above the capital, nestled on the steep slopes of the southern bank. Its guns watched out over the inlet, and any ship sailing into the harbour passed under the watchful eyes of its garrison. In truth, of course, Asbjørnsen wasn’t aware of the guns having ever been fired except in salute, but the fortress certainly looked picturesque.

It was a warm summer day, and he found himself wishing he had sprung for a carriage ride by the time he arrived at the fortress’s gates. A pair of soldiers flanked the gate, looking bored and sticking to the shade. They touched their fingers to the visors of their shakos when he approached, and he briefly tipped his hat. “My name is Asbjørnsen,” he said, before quietly chiding himself. His name had appeared in print, after all. When they did not seem to recognise it, he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. “I am a lawyer, here to see my client—the drummer Nils Andersen of the foot guards.”

The soldiers shared a look. “Huh,” one of them made, then turned back to Asbjørnsen. “Sorry, your honour, just surprised. Didn’t expect the poor sod to be able to afford a lawyer.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “I was hired by some of his comrades.”

“Good on them. Nasty business, I hear. Uh, head on inside, your honour—the arrest cells are in the eastern ramparts. The man on duty will let you in.”

Trying not to run, Asbjørnsen walked into the fortress. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten somewhere he shouldn’t have been, but usually the people around him didn’t have quite so many guns. Did this technically count as espionage? Better not to worry about it. This had better be worth it.

He made his way across the shaded courtyard and entered the eastern ramparts. At once, he was enveloped by a chilly damp seeping through the stonework and shuddered. An ideal location for a prison, to be sure. He introduced himself to the guard on duty—still keeping up the pretence of being the prisoner’s defender—and soon was escorted into a small, gas-lit interrogation room, bare except for a table and a pair of wobbly wooden chairs. He sat, removed his hat, placed the borrowed briefcase next to him on the floor, and waited.

Immediately, Asbjørnsen was struck by the man’s size—he seemed a giant in the small interrogation room, though the knit _topplue_ and undress uniform he wore made him look almost comical. For a moment, Asbjørnsen watched the man, taking note of his eager blue eyes. The soldiers at the beer garden had called their unfortunate comrade simple, and he suspected they were correct. This would make things easier, no doubt.

Finally, the guard left the room, leaving them alone. “My name is Johan Christian Asbjørnsen,” he said.

“Nils Andersen, your honour. Thanks for comin’ to see me. You’ll tell ‘em I ain’t did nothing wrong, right?”

He frowned, and busied himself by opening his briefcase and producing a notepad and pen from within. “I’m afraid I’m not actually a lawyer,” he admitted, and the prisoner’s face fell. “But I intend to help you get one. I’m a journalist, and I’m here to help you. But first, you need to tell me exactly what happened …”

Most days, Queen Elsa was awake at seven. She had breakfast in the Red Drawing Room from seven-thirty to nine-thirty, during which time she read the papers and whatever dispatches had assembled overnight. From nine-thirty to four in the afternoon, she worked in her office, the council of state’s chamber or, weather permitting, the gardens, generally taking a small lunch at her desk. She then retired to freshen up for dinner, which she usually took in the Family Dining Room from five to seven. She then resumed work in her private office for another three hours or, workload permitting, retired to the library or music room for the evening. She was then in bed by midnight. Sleep, rise, repeat.

Having Anna around tended to disrupt her schedule.

It was nine by the time she awoke in her sister’s bed, a tangle of limbs and hair and soaked sheets. Sunlight had tickled her awake, warming her bare skin. She had lain there for some time, lost to time, counting her blessings at the sight of her very own modern-day Helena drooling onto a pillow. Elsa knew every freckle on her sister’s face, knew her body better than her own, and yet with every breaking day she was amazed anew. Seeing Anna like this, naked in her arms, peacefully at rest, never ceased to make her heart beat higher.

She nestled closer to her sister, burying her face in Anna’s hair and inhaling her scent. _Their_ scent. Anna smelt of love and lust and danger, smelt of _her,_ her perfume, her touch, her sex. She was hers during the night, and was still hers in the morning, no matter what …

Elsa froze (figuratively speaking) as the reality of the situation crashed down on her. “Oh no,” she whispered, disentangling herself from her sister, still careful not to disturb her. “Oh no oh no oh no …” She didn’t remember, not fully, how they had ended up in this situation, but the empty bottle of wine on the nightstand gave her some idea. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, she glanced at the Empire clock on the mantlepiece—quarter past nine—and once again cursed herself for her carelessness. How could she have been so foolish?

Her clothes from last night lay discarded on the floor, mixed with Anna’s. They were certainly in no state to be worn, but even if they had been, she could hardly be seen leaving her sister’s room wearing yesterday evening’s gowns. Quickly, she gathered up her clothes and stuffed them at the bottom of Anna’s wardrobe—hopefully, there the maids wouldn’t notice them.

She tried to clean herself up as best she could at Anna’s washstand, washing away her smudged makeup and braiding her hair. Though she had no illusions that she was going to be anywhere near presentable without a full bath, Elsa finally had to admit that not much more could be achieved right now and returned to the bedside to check on Anna.

To her relief, her sister was still fast asleep. Elsa had to stifle a giggle at the sight of her, bizarrely contorted and chewing on a strand of hair. She gently removed the offending strand, tucking it behind Anna’s ear, then smoothed out the blanket curled around Anna’s feet and drew it up to her neck. In her sleep, Anna turned around and mumbled something unintelligible. Smiling like a fool, Elsa went on a knee by her sister’s side. Oh, how she wished she could crawl back into bed with her and hold her close. Instead, she leaned in to kiss Anna on the brow. “I gotta go now,” she whispered, hoping Anna would understand her leaving. “Thank you for last night. I love you so much.”

She added another kiss for good measure, then reluctantly rose to her feet. In a swirl of ice, a shimmering dressing gown appeared around her. Hopefully, it would be enough not to arouse too much suspicion. Then, with another look back at her sleeping sister, Elsa stepped out of Anna’s bedroom into her private sitting room. Thankfully, the servants knew not to disturb Anna before noon.

Her own apartment was a different matter. After Elsa had snuck a peek through the doorway, she dared to step out into the hallway. Deserted, thank God. She longingly glanced over at the door to her own royal apartment, where she might have a chance to wash and dress properly—but chances were the staff was in there right now, cleaning. _Wondering why your bed isn’t slept in._

She took a moment to steady herself as a thin layer of frost appeared on a nearby window. _You’re the queen, Elsa. You can do this._ Deep breaths. Where to? Wherever she went, she would have to face people—staff, guards, officials. Even now, she couldn’t believe how foolish they had been—she had been. That was, after all, the curse of their love: that while no one would begrudge them smiles and lingering touches and chaste kisses, even in public, anything beyond the purely sisterly and natural must never see the light of day. It had been dangerous enough to use the Turkish Pavilion for their secret getaways, what if someone should pass by and see their light in the dark? Anna had worn her down, though—as she always did _._ Elsa might be used to concealing her true feelings and keeping the world at arm’s length, but she could tell how much her sister suffered under the secrecy.

In the end, she decided on seeking refuge in audacity. She burst into the Red Drawing Room like she owned the place (well, technically …). A howling gust of wind carried a snowdrift into the room with her, landing on the carpet and at once beginning to form a puddle. Two maids, halfway through clearing the untouched breakfast table, stared at her in shock.

Elsa took a deep breath, folded her hands in front of her and assumed what she hoped was a regal bearing. “Leave it, and pour me my coffee.” The maids hurriedly curtsied and got to work as Elsa took her seat. They had already removed most of the buffet—no doubt the kitchen staff would be enjoying it for lunch—so she prepared a simple salmon sandwich as the maids scurried about to restore her breakfast and fetch new coffee. Elsa did not recognize them—since the Great Freeze, it seemed as though the staff doubled every other week. Kai and Gerda, at least, were in their element, finally able to preside over a staff appropriate to the palace and her station. Still, part of Elsa missed the days when she had known everyone in the household, and known she could trust them with her life. Kai and Gerda and the others had served her parents as loyally as herself, keeping her secret for years. There were some things she knew even they would not stomach, of course, like the unnatural affection she felt for Anna. Even so, she’d feel safer if it was only them.

One of the new maids poured her a cup of coffee, which did much to lift her spirits. “The papers, please.” Promptly, the pile of freshly-pressed newspapers was placed on the table: today’s _Aftenbladet_ and _Morgenposten,_ and yesterday’s _Times, Figaro,_ and _Neue Zürcher Zeitung._ “Oh, and inform Baron Nordenskjold to reschedule the council of state for three.” She’d find some excuse for her private secretary tomorrow.

She was halfway through the _Aftenbladet’s_ business pages when the door opened and _Anna_ shuffled into the room. Elsa was on her feet before she knew it, equal parts alarmed and delighted. Where Elsa had attempted to salvage her appearance, Anna looked no less dishevelled—and no less adorable—than she had safely asleep in Elsa’s arms. The sight of her put her in mind of that moment, and the night that had preceded it—images rushing through her mind, each more tantalising than the last—and Elsa found herself flushing bright red. “A-Anna! Good … good morning!”

If her sister had heard her, she gave no indication of it. Thankfully, neither did the maids. Anna shuffled across the room without opening her eyes lifting her bare feet (Elsa had to force herself not to stare—but for the calf-length nightgown she had thrown over, her sister was naked, not even bothering with a dressing gown). Trying to still her beating heart, Elsa forced herself to sit down and stare at the paper in front of her as Anna sat down opposite her and blindly reached for her coffee. Elsa was faintly aware of the maids busying themselves around them, but if they said anything she could not have heard them over the drumming of her heart. Unsteadily, she reached for her coffee—frozen solid. Damn.

Only Anna’s hearty and decidedly unladylike yawn tore her from her distraction. She managed to resist the conflicting impulses to either admonish her sister to cover her mouth or to giggle at how precious she was. Instead, she turned to the maids. “Leave us,” she ordered, and waited until they had closed the door behind them. Then, she turned once again to Anna, and this time allowed herself a tender, loving smile. “Good morning.”

“Hnmrngrnrgnnngnghh.”

Elsa had to stifle a laugh. Anna had never been a morning person. For the moment, she returned her attention to the papers—or tried to, anyway. Try as she might to focus on the latest developments on the stock market, she could not stop herself from glancing up to stare at Anna every now and then. _God, she’s beautiful._ She wanted nothing more than to run her hands through that wild mane of hair, to kiss every freckle on her face. The top buttons of Anna’s nightgown were undone, and every time she leaned forward to reach for the coffee or another chocolate éclair, Elsa caught a glimpse of her freckled shoulder, and each glimpse sent shivers down her spine. It was nothing she hadn’t seen before, but seeing her in this state of undress …

Eventually, Anna had woken up enough to be halfway coherent. “Ps’m t’sugr.”

“Excuse me?” She had to grin.

Anna halted for a moment, then carefully enunciated each syllable. “Pass me the sugar.”

“Pass me the sugar _what_?” Elsa was enjoying this far too much. She needed to have breakfast with her precious, delightful sister more frequently.

“ _Passmethesugarpleaseyesthankyou_.”

Elsa stifled a laugh as she passed the sugar bowl. Anna’s eyes were still half-closed, so she took Anna’s blindly reaching hand in hers (her sister gave a very satisfying yelp) and placed it on the rim of the bowl. For a moment, they lingered there.

Then, Anna forced open her eyes to look at her, and part of Elsa died and went straight to Heaven. “G’morning,” she mumbled.

Elsa felt her cheeks reddening. “Sleep well?”

“Hmm.” Her hand on the sugar bowl was hot under hers. “Not as good as what came before, though.”

“A-Anna!” At this point, the colour of her face must surely match that of the smoked salmon on the breakfast table. After she had regained a modicum of composure, she hissed: “You shouldn’t talk like that—it’s—it’s immodest, and what if …”

“That’s not what you said last night. In fact, I _distinctly_ remember you saying some rather … immodest things. Quite loudly, too.” Was Anna _smirking_ at her? By God, that girl would be the death of her. “I especially liked all the times you begged me not to stop touching you.”

It was all she could do not to scream. Primly, she folded her hands in her lap and looked down her nose at her (still gorgeous, yup) sister. “W-whatever We did or did not pronounce,” she declared, trying to keep the stutter of our voice, “We do not _beg …_ ” Anna looked at her like she had grown a second head.

Then, both women broke out laughing.

“God, Elsa,” Anna wheezed when she had composed herself, “you should have seen your _face_ …”

She pouted at that. “It’s not nice to tease your sister like that. Or your queen, for that matter.”

Anna leant forward, resting her chin on her daintily folded hands, and fluttered her eyelashes. “Or your … paramour?”

Her face fell. _Oh, Anna._ What could she say that had not already been said a hundred times before? She stared down at the papers in front of her, the blackletter type blurring before her eyes. The smile disappeared from Anna’s eyes as she returned her attention to her breakfast. “I’m sorry,” her sister said in a small voice. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t say things like that, it’s just that … nevermind.”

“Anna …” Elsa never knew what to say in situations like this. Strange and disturbing and unnatural as their relationship was now, she had never had the opportunity to be the sister Anna deserved, to learn how to be good to her. Instead, she had fallen into her sister’s arms, demanding a love that could never be. Taking advantage of a young girl who had been hurt and betrayed and abandoned, and corrupting her to better suit her perversion in turn. If she was a stronger woman, she might have been able to break away from her, leave her be. Run away to the mountains or Northuldra or anywhere, really. Anna would be hurt, but she’d heal, in time, both from the loss and the damage that she had done to her. She would make a good queen. In time, a good wife and mother.

They sat in silence for some time, Anna poking at her breakfast and Elsa trying and failing to read the papers. _In the first instance, it is well-known the merchants were anxious to have a return of duty allowed on stock in the event of a reduction, and that without any restriction; but … were_ anxious _to have a_ return of duty _allowed on stock_ in the event _of a_ reduction … _the MERCHANTS were anxious to have a RETURN of DUTY allowed on STOCK in the … the **merchants** were anxious to have **a return**_ Anna was crying.

She was trying not to let it show, but every now and then a stifled sob escaped her sister’s throat, even as she was plainly fighting to keep back tears. Elsa’s throat and chest seemed to constrict at the sight, as though trying to choke her. _I did this to her._ Without even thinking, she stood up and rounded the breakfast table, and knelt by Anna’s side, wanting nothing more than to kiss her tears away. “Anna …”

“I’m okay,” her sister sniffed, “I’m sorry. I’m ruining your breakfast, aren’t I? You’re not getting any work done, no wonder y-you’re always up this early, you p-probably don’t even want to …”

She tried to stop herself, she really did. But then her arms were slung around Anna’s waist and she was holding her close, pressing her sister’s body to her own like someone might take her away from her if she didn’t. “Anna …” she repeated, as her sister burrowed her face in the nape of her neck, the ice fabric cracking like new snow under her touch. “Anna, no … you’re not ruining anything. I’m the one who should apologise. I—I keep messing things up and … and making you … cry, and … oh, _Anna …_ ” By this point, she too was in tears.

They clung to each other as the sobs rocked their bodies. Finally, Anna sniffed and looked at her. “I’m sorry. I’ve gotten you all gross and icky.” Elsa was about to respond that she could make her all gross and icky any time before she realised how that might sound. “I just … I just miss you so very much.”

“I’m here, Anna. I’m not going anywhere.”

“N-no, I mean …” She took Elsa’s hand, placed it against her bosom. “When I woke up and you were g-gone …” Anna trailed off. “We’re not … we’re not together. Not … not the way I want us to be, as …”

She broke off, but she did not need to continue. “As husband and wife,” Elsa finished for her, her voice hollow. Once again, she was reminded of how much more—how much better Anna deserved, what she _needed_. What Elsa could never give her.

Her sister smiled down at her through eyes gleaming with tears. “Is it that much to ask?” She sniffled again, then drew Elsa up to be roughly at eye-level with her, even if that meant pulling her half into her lap. “To fall asleep and wake up by each other’s side, every night and every day. To … to not have to hide anymore. I—I love you so much, Elsa. I want to tell everyone I meet how wonderful you are. H-how you’re mine.”

“Anna …” Her voice was no more than a whisper, and halfway to a moan. “Oh, Anna …”

“I know.” Anna dug her nose into her sister’s shoulder once again. “I’m sorry. I’m … no good at keeping secrets.” _Unlike you_ , Elsa finished for her. _I haven’t spent my whole life lying._

She didn’t know what to say, so she simply stroked Anna’s back. “I love you too,” she whispered after a while, when the silence had become unbearable. “I’m sorry I couldn’t … can’t be there for you.” She buried her nose in Anna’s messy hair, breathed in her scent. “No matter how much I want to.”

“We could … could go back to the way things used to be. Reduce the staff, close the gates. No one would have to know.”

“We both know that’s not what you want, Anna.”

Her sister shook her head, nestled her face to her neck. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. “It’s _not fair._ Every crowned head in Europe has a mistress and no one bats an eye.”

“That’s not true,” Elsa corrected automatically, though she knew it mattered not one bit. “Louis-Philippe, Frederick-William and Tsar Nicholas are all true to their wives, Emperor Ferdinand is too feeble to make love to one woman let alone two, and you know how Victoria is with her Albert, or Cousin Punzel with her Eugene.”

“ _Not the point,_ Elsa. It’s just … why can’t we …” She broke off. Even in private, it was difficult to talk about. Then, Anna withdrew to look into her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I should just be happy with what we do have, shouldn’t I?” A faint smile appeared on her teary face. “After all, I’ve got my sister back. _And_ I had the world’s most beautiful woman in my bed last night …” Elsa flushed bright pink, and Anna’s smile turned into a grin. The flow of her tears, it seemed, had thankfully ceased. “… and she doesn’t mind if I do _this._ ”

Anna leaned in to kiss her. It was not unexpected, and still Elsa’s breath hitched as their lips brushed against each other. No matter how many times they kissed, it was always new, always exciting. Always made her heart flutter, her head spin and her body heat up. This kiss was chaste, by their standards, although by no means sisterly. After a long moment, they drew apart. Anna’s hand lingered on her cheek, warm and tender.

“I love you,” Elsa whispered, staring up at her sister. “I love you the way ice loves the sunlight …”

At that, Anna blushed. “Uh, you mean it turns wet and slippery?”

“Wha… no!” She startled, jumped to her feet, turned away and hid her face in her hands. “Goodness, I—I meant … something like … I don’t know, it’s only pretty when it’s … glittering in the sun, and you …” She broke off, took a deep breath to calm herself. Anna was giggling behind her back, and Elsa sighed with relief at the sound. “You complete me.”

“Aww …”

“And …” Elsa paused to gather herself. Just thinking the words she was about to say made her stomach turn with fear, and not a little bit of excitement besides. Still, Anna needed to hear them. “And if I could … if it were possible … I would want nothing more than to have you as my queen. You’re more than my sister, you’re—you’re my best friend and the love of my life. I would wed you in a heartbeat.”

Anna’s smile was melancholy as she rose and stepped across the room to her, her face still wet with the trails of tears as she took her hands. “I’ll take it,” she whispered, took Elsa’s face in her hands, and kissed her deeply.

She never did get to finish those newspapers.

It was nearly half past three by the time she felt ready to join the council of state. After their, ah, activities in the Red Drawing Room, and the frenzied tidying-up that followed, Elsa had returned to her apartments and had a bath drawn to clean up and relax her sore muscles. Her maids had worked hard to keep the water comfortably hot, and she had dozed off in the steam despite her resolutions to catch up on her work before the council meeting. By the time she had emerged, her skin red and wrinkly, she was already late and hurrying her lady’s maid along to fix her hair.

When she burst into the council of state, her ministers were already deep in discussion, her prime minister Baron Nordenskjold presiding. All debate ceased when she entered in a flurry of snow and let her icy gaze sweep over the room. All councillors were in attendance by the looks of it—somewhat unusual. They scrambled to their feet at her appearance, nodding respectfully as she slowly made her way to her seat at the head of the table.

“Pray be seated, gentlemen.” Everyone settled back into their chairs. Their eyes were on her, expectant and—perhaps—concerned? She tried not to blush. “Thank you for chairing in my absence, baron. Now, where were we?”

Someone coughed. Knudsen, the minister for agriculture and fishery. “We, er, we were discussing some possible amendments to the new Mines and Collieries Bill presently before the Riksdag, but …” He broke off, as if unsure whether to go on, and glanced at the prime minister. “Perhaps the president of the council might have some other matter to bring up?”

Nordenskjold threw Knudsen a withering glare, then cleared his throat and looked at the space above Elsa’s shoulder. “Your Majesty, there … is a certain matter which falls into the purview of the ministers for war and of education and Church affairs, as well as the minister of police. I am hesitant to mention it in the royal presence, but as the laws of the nation do not currently allow proper redress for the wrong that has been committed …” He trailed off, staring at Elsa’s blank expression. “Ma’am, have you … have you by chance read today’s edition of the _Morgenposten_?”

She tried not to think of the reason she had not, praying that her blush wouldn’t show. “I have not,” she declared, as primly as she could. “Other matters commanded my … attention.” She had gotten halfway through the _Aftenbladet,_ but the _Morgenposten_ was usually second on her list—she mistrusted the paper, its positions tended to be dangerously liberal. Not to mention that it had been they who had first reported on the … events surrounding her coronation, bringing her failure as much as her powers out into the open. Ever since, every sudden snowfall, every frozen river had been accompanied by disloyal insinuations and speculation. She hadn’t even caused _half_ of those.

Nordenskjold sighed as the other ministers pretended to be extremely interested in their briefing notes. It was evident that whatever news he had was bad. “Please do not beat around the bush, baron. What is the matter?”

Baron Nordenskjold reached for the briefcase sitting by his chair. “There was a certain article which … reprinted some vile and infamous calumnies,” he explained, fumbling with the clasp. “The individual who originated this libel, a soldier in Your Majesty’s guard regiment, is presently awaiting trial, but the law does not permit us to curtail the _Morgenposten_ from reprinting the, ah, accusations, in its reporting on the court case.”

Elsa raised an eyebrow as Nordenskjold produced the paper from his briefcase and passed it to her. “What is the matter, then? My father granted freedom of the press for a reason. The target of the libel is welcome to bring suit against the _Morgenposten_ if he or she believes their honour is being impugned _._ ”

“I am sorry to say the target is the Crown, Your Majesty. Page two, just under the fold.”

Confused, she turned to the relevant page and began to read. Nordenskjold had put a marker to the article in question—just a few inches of finely-printed text. The headline read: _MORGENPOSTEN DEFENDS IMBECILE GUARDSMAN AGAINST MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE._

_Wednesday last the drummer Nils Andersen of the 2 nd Foot Guards, an avowed and notorious imbecile, was brutally lashed and imprisoned for a crime of conscience, for which crime Mr Andersen is now awaiting a court-martial. The _Morgenposten _, in furtherance of our well-known championship of free expression, has provided Mr Andersen with defence counsel._

_It is our understanding that Mr Andersen, known by all his comrades as a good but simple-minded idiot with the lamblike temperament of a true Christian, related to his peers a certain incident he had observed in the execution of his duties at the Royal gardens’ Turkish Pavilion involving_ HM The Queen _and_ HRH The Princess Anna _, which said comrades in a lascivious manner interpreted to refer to_ HM _and_ HRH _committing certain unspeakable and abominable acts against nature._

Elsa froze, the paper crumpling in her hands from how tightly she was holding on to it. _Someone knows._ When had it gotten so cold in here? _Someone saw us._ Trembling, she reached for the edge of the table to steady herself. _Someone_ saw _us._ Her councillors uttered exclamations of surprise when the water in their glasses turned to ice. _THEY KNOW._ A thin layer of frost spread throughout the room, covering every surface in glittering furry ice. _SOMEONE …_ Elsa closed her eyes a moment, took a deep breath to calm her nerves. She could feel the nausea rising within her. Every fibre of her being was screaming for her to run, to run away and hide and freeze … _I have to keep reading,_ she told herself. _I promised Anna I’d not run away again._ She forced herself to open her eyes, but had to read every sentence three times until she grasped its meaning.

_Though the_ Morgenposten _condemns any such calumny, it is patent to all who know Mr Andersen that his childlike intellect is incapable of conceiving of or even comprehending such perversities and doubtless misconstrued some innocent act of sisterly affection, which his comrades twisted in their depraved imaginations. Nevertheless, Mr Andersen was brutally and cruelly punished, and now faces further censure for an alleged crime he does not understand. The_ Morgenposten _asks our devoted readership to support us in our crusade against this horrendous miscarriage of justice. Your reporter will continue to inform you of any new developments in the trial of Mr Andersen._

Finally, she lowered the newspaper onto the table, and did not look up. Her breath crystallised in the air, and it had grown dark as the windowpanes had frozen over. “Your Majesty?” one of her councillors asked, his voice on edge. “Are you feeling well? Would you like us to fetch your physician?”

She waved the concern aside. “I’m alright, gentlemen … I’m alright. Thank you for your concern.”

“I understand you must be shocked. Revolted, even,” Baron Nordenskjold said, ever so gently. Revolted? Why yes, that _would_ have been the appropriate reaction to reading a rumour _(in the paper right there for all of Arendelle to see)_ accusing her of violating her sister. She should be disgusted, and offended, and horrified, not … afraid. “But I fear you cannot ignore such libel. It seems clear that the _Morgenposten_ are planning to continue exploiting this poor troubled idiot’s falsehoods for all they can, and they are not going to back down in the face of government pressure. We need to come down on them hard and fast.”

Elsa was struggling even to follow his words. “But … wouldn’t suppressing them … wouldn’t that just lend them credence?” _Confirm they’re right._

“No other monarch in Europe would tolerate half the things that are printed about you, ma’am,” the minister of police, Dr. Ramberg, pointed out. “The _Morgenposten_ has crossed the line this time. To accuse you of the things they did …” He shuddered, revulsion plain in his face. Elsa supposed she couldn’t blame him, though it certainly stung. “Rest assured that no one will think you are not justified in acting against them. Lesé majesté is the least of their offences—libel, obscenity, sedition …” He grimaced. “With your permission, I can have the _Morgenposten’s_ offices raided. We can then introduce a bill in the Riksdag to prevent publication of such obscenity going forward.”

“Impossible,” Baron Nordenskjold interjected. “We haven’t the votes for anything that even smells of censorship. This will have to be handled strictly as an order-in-council. We can draft new regulations for …”

Elsa was still shaking as the ministers began a heated argument on how best to overturn everything her father had stood for so she could continue to—to _fuck_ her own sister … Trembling, she reached for her glass of water. A solid block of ice, of course. She set it down again. “G-gentlemen …” Her throat was sore, her voice weak. “Gentlemen!” That got their attention. She raised her hand to stop their debate. “Do whatever you deem best, I will countersign whatever measure you put before me. Just … just _make sure_ you nip this in the bud.”

There was a general nodding of heads. “What about the court case itself?” she continued. “That … unfortunate guardsman. Is the Crown prosecuting him?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dr. Ramberg confirmed. “His commanding officer referred the case to Crown counsel, who brought charges for lesé majesté, obscenity, and sedition. If convicted, he will face the death penalty.”

She flinched at that. The man had only spoken the truth, after all. She tapped her finger against the newspaper in front of her. “The article suggests he is feeble-minded. Let him recant his claims and move to have the court declare him incapable. I would sooner spare this man the noose than have it seem as though we are taking his claims seriously.” Dr. Ramberg nodded and made a note of her order.

“Your Majesty,” Lord Thorkelson, the minister of war, suggested, his voice careful and deliberate, “it might be advisable to take additional measures to … deter speculation. Such rumours have a way of exciting the common rabble—the more depraved, the better. It would be wise to put some distance between yourself and the princess, until this has all blown over. To show that there is no truth to these accusations. Her Highness might enjoy a tour of the continent—perhaps it might even help her place the thought of an advantageous marriage in its proper light. Despite the, ah, disappointment of Prince Hans, there are a number of young princes who would be delighted to pay court to Her Highness. And certainly it might do her well to put some distance between herself and that, ahem, ice cutter boy.”

Every word drove spikes of ice into her heart. Any other day, she might have put Thorkelson in his place with a withering glare and a reminder that the affairs of the royal family were not within his purview. Today, she knew that he was right. _If Kristoff isn’t good enough for her, where does that leave me?_ She swallowed hard, her throat tight. _It’s not like I’d be arranging a marriage for her. It’d be healthy for her to … get some distance from me, with or without Kristoff. Heal. Forget about me._ She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry. She said: “I will consider it. Thank you for your counsel, my lord.”

Then, abruptly, she rose to her feet. The councillors scrambled to do so as well. “That will be all, gentlemen. You are dismissed until Friday, with my thanks.”

With nervous bows, the ministers filed out of the meeting room, leaving her alone. The minister of Church affairs and education, old Dr. Vennerod, was the last to remain, fumbling with the clasp of his briefcase with fingers stiff from the cold. Elsa sighed, but patiently—she was already feeling freer and safer than she had for the entirety of the meeting. She walked over to help Dr. Vennerod. He looked up at her from pale eyes, his breath crystallising in the air. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice hoary. The old priest was going on ninety and had been on the council of state for as long as she could remember—she was pretty sure he had baptised her and Anna, not that she could remember. He had never been a confidant to her during her regency and confinement the way that Archbishop Schønheyder had been, but she still thought fondly of him.

“I apologise for the cold. Sometimes my emotions still get the better of me.” She closed the clasp of the briefcase and handed it to him.

“No harm done, ma’am. I don’t believe anyone would blame you for reacting strongly to these lies.” He gave her a faint smile.

“Right.” She clasped her hands in front of her.

Dr. Vennerod’s smile fell. “They are lies, of course,” he said, cautiously. Like he was challenging her.

A sudden gust of icy wind tore through the open door to the hallway, making the old man stumble. The frozen-over windowpanes groaned and rattled under the sudden gust, as jagged spikes of gleaming, clouded white ice burst from the floorboards around Elsa’s feet. She stood in the middle of it, still as a statue, her hands demurely folded and a faint, brittle smile on her face. “Perhaps it would be best,” she pressed forth from tortured lungs, high-pitched and faint, “if you left. Good day, reverend.”

The old man paled, then nodded a bow. Terror was plain in his eyes, mixed with something else. _Revulsion. Disgust. Horror._ He hurried out of the meeting room, the door slamming shut in a gust of wind behind him.

As frost covered every available surface in the room, Elsa sunk to her knees and dug her teeth deep into the flesh of her arm to keep from screaming out for all the world to hear.

This was getting a bit too hot for comfort, Asbjørnsen had decided.

Sure, he’d been welcomed to the _Morgenposten’s_ newsroom with open arms and an offer of a salary he couldn’t have dreamt of at the _Aftenbladet._ And yes, the story that had gotten him here had blossomed into a public _cause célèbre._ His name might not be on it—though his new editors had certainly offered, he knew better than to attract more attention than necessary—but he had reaped the rewards that had come with a certain level of notoriety amongst connoisseurs. He was certainly getting invited to a lot more dinner parties than before, and at much better tables, too. Asbjørnsen had no illusions that his fame would last, but he was determined to make the most out of it while he still could.

Of course, the unfortunate individual to whom he owed part of his changed fortunes (alright, most of them) remained in a less than advantageous state.

Dr Viken stormed into the meeting room like an avenging angel, if avenging angels weighed four hundred pounds and sported impressive mutton chops. “Insanity!” he thundered, his face red. He slammed a thick folder of legal papers on the table in the small, sun-flooded meeting room at Arenfjord Fortress. “The bastards are offering to have our client declared not guilty by reason of insanity, damn them!”

Andersen seemed not a little intimidated by his lawyer’s outburst. “But … ain’t that a good thing, sir?”

“Like Hell it is!” Dr Viken had precisely one volume. This was it. He jabbed a fleshy finger at Andersen’s chest. The soldier had at least six inches on him, and still he cowered in his chair. “You think you’re insane, boy? You a lunatic? You howl at the moon, drool when you talk or speak in tongues?”

Nervously, Andersen shook his head. “Uh … no, your honour?”

“Damn straight!” The lawyer slammed the table. “The bastards want to silence you! Have you declared incapable and put in a madhouse! Well, I won’t stand for it!”

“I don’t wanna go to no madhouse,” Andersen said, nervously. “My mother always says a madhouse ain’t no place for me. But … me bein’ not guilty’s a good thing, ain’t it, your honour? You said I’d hang otherwise.”

_If the Crown asks for a ‘not guilty’ verdict, we have no case. No case means no story,_ Asbjørnsen realised. He put his hand on Andersen’s shoulder. “Only if we lose,” he pointed out with an encouraging smile. “But we have a strong case. We are going to win, and you’re going to be free. Not locked up in a madhouse where they starve and beat you because you don’t know your letters. Besides, they’ll expect you to recant … to say that you didn’t see what you saw.”

“But I did see it, your honour,” Andersen protested. “God be my witness, I swear I did. I didn’t know seein’ it was wrong, I didn’t mean no trouble. I’ll say I’m sorry if they want, but I can’t say I didn’t see it.”

“Perish the though. Your honesty does you credit. Are you sure you can stick to your story—the truth, I mean—no matter how hard they push you? We won’t be able to protect you from the Crown prosecutor when you’re under examination.”

Andersen nodded, his wide jaw clenched. “I ain’t no liar,” he said. “Liars go to Hell.”

Asbjørnsen glanced at Dr Viken, who winked. _God forgive me, this is easier than taking candy from a baby._ Feeling the urge to reassure himself, he addressed the lawyer. “We are going to win, right? You’re sure of it?”

With a heavy sigh, Dr Viken sat down, causing the flimsy wooden chair to groan under his weight. “It depends. The Crown prosecutor is probably hoping for our client to recant and not to contest his charge of insanity. We could then haggle about whether the court will order him committed. That’d be the easy way out.”

“But it wouldn’t allow us to make our case about government censorship. So what do we do?”

Dr Viken drummed on the edge of the table. “Difficult to say. It’s difficult to prove, but we could show a mistake of fact—show that Andersen truly believed the damn thing he said. He is an im…” He glanced at his client across the table, who didn’t seem particularly indignant. Probably used to it, poor sod. “… an individual with impaired judgment, after all. He’ll still have to stop saying the damn stuff, though.”

“But I did see it,” the drummer insisted, his voice soft. “I know what I saw. I ain’t smart, but I’ve got a good memory.”

“God in Heaven …” The lawyer uttered an exasperated prayer, rolling his eyes, but Asbjørnsen had struck gold.

“Well,” he said, “what if we could prove that he was telling the truth?”

Dr Viken snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, no, I’m serious. It’s not like they can _prove_ that the Queen and Princess aren’t …” His throat was dry and he had to cough. “Aren’t … doing that. All we need is to show that there’s a greater-than-even chance that they are, right?”

The lawyer made no attempt to hide his scepticism. “You’re assuming there’s evidence for that. There might not be.”

But Johan Christian Asbjørnsen only grinned. “Leave that to me.” After all, he thought, this wasn’t altogether different from writing for the papers. If you haven’t got a story, make one.

The key difference, he suddenly realised as he was already halfway to the royal palace, was that a man would hang if he got this wrong.

She found her sister where she knew she would: curled up in a bay window couch in the library, half-facing the window, stockinged legs folded by her side. She had positioned herself so as to catch as much of the evening’s fading sunlight as she could and had in her lap a thick slab of a book in soft leather binding.

Anna had intended to storm in and say her piece. She had not counted on the way the thin layer of frost on the windowpanes broke the bright orange light of the setting sun, or the way it framed her sister’s features, streaming through her silvery hair in hues of white and gold.

She halted in her stride the moment she saw her, and, like always, she had to remind herself to breathe. Try as she might, Anna could not have kept the smile from her face as she silently observed the way Elsa quietly moved her lips, the way her dainty finger ran across the page.

But she had come for a reason, even if, right now, it was a bit difficult to remember what, exactly, that had been. Quietly, she closed the library door behind her and made her way across to Elsa. Her muddy riding boots sank deep into the thick Persian carpets, and not a sound was heard.

Elsa looked up when her sister knelt by her side, giving her the gentlest of smiles. “You’re back early.”

She was, like, half certain that keeping vital information from the queen constituted some form of treason, but right now there was no force in Hell that could have made her spoil this moment. So instead of speaking a reply, she took Elsa’s cold, pale hand in her own, rubbing her gloved thumb across its back. She brought it to her lips, kissed each knuckle, one by one. Elsa bit her lips, but let her continue. “Anna …”

Anna still wasn’t sure how to address the elephant in the room. She kicked off her muddy boots and sat down on the couch by Elsa’s side, nestling close to her. “What are you reading?” she mumbled into her sister’s bare neck. The book in her lap was a score, lines and lines of music snaking across the page like fly droppings on a gridiron. As a child, Elsa had played the piano and sung beautifully. After their long separation, Anna had been equal parts saddened and amused to find that, while Elsa no longer made music and only rarely attended concerts or the opera, she still liked to sit in silence and read the music off the page, as if she could hear it in her head.

Elsa scooted over to make more space for her. “It’s a new opera, freshly arrived from Dresden. _Tannhäuser_ , it’s called, by that Wagner fellow who wrote _Rienzi_. Maestro Liszt has been singing its praises in all the musical journals.”

“Hmmm.” Anna kissed her sister’s shoulder, then her neck. For a moment, she felt as though Elsa had flinched slightly at the touch, but it must have been her imagination. “You like it?”

“I’m … struggling with it, honestly,” Elsa confessed. “It’s quite complex and I keep getting distracted thinking about … other things. The score arrived a week ago and I’m barely past the prelude. What I’ve seen has been lovely, though.”

“That’s nice.” Anna’s own music lessons had not extended past the bare minimum. Her teachers, and her parents, had very quickly decided that, for their own sake, they would not inflict their younger daughter’s questionable talents on themselves for any longer than strictly necessary. She went to the opera occasionally, but mostly for the people-watching. “Maybe we can have it put on for your birthday next year. You’ve been talking about making Arendelle a cultural beacon for months.”

Again, she went for a nibble on Elsa’s neck, and this time her sister definitely flinched. She withdrew, disappointed and knowing that she could delay no longer. “Elsa …”

Her sister lowered her head, giving her an apologetic smile through her eyelashes. “I’m sorry. I’m fidgeting, aren’t I?”

Nope, couldn’t do it. “It’s alright. What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” Elsa put aside the score to snuggle to her sister, burying her face on her shoulder. “Just … work stuff. Politics. Y’know.”

“Right.” For a moment, they sat there in silence, each unwilling to be the first to speak. Finally, Anna relented, saying quietly: “Is this about how you’re sending me away?”

Elsa froze, and from the corner of her eye, Anna could see the windowpanes freezing over. In an instant, the soft twilight faded, leaving only what light filtered through the ice and the faint glow of the gas lamps in the library. “… who told you?”

_So it’s true._ She sighed, closed her eyes. “You did, just now.” _Goddammit, Elsa …_ “They’re outfitting KNM _Valkyrjen_ for a tour of Europe _._ Kristoff said so, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess why. I read the papers, you know. Occasionally. It’s all anyone’s been talking about in town. _Us._ ” She stressed that dear word harshly.

“I’m sorry. I … I meant to tell you. Soon. Once I’d … worked up the nerve.”

She should have been furious at her. Certainly, Kristoff had had some harsh words for the queen when she’d told him of her suspicions earlier that day. _But Kristoff doesn’t know her like I do. No one does._ Part of her still wanted nothing more than to accuse Elsa of breaking her promise, of leaving her, shutting her out once again, how dare she? How could she, after what they’d discovered about themselves and about each other?

Instead, she gently brushed Elsa’s back, feeling the habitual chill of her skin through the fabric of her gown. “It’s okay,” she muttered. It wasn’t, but she understood. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Still, Elsa flinched at the implication, and Anna at once regretting putting it like that. “I’m sorry,” she repeated in a small voice. “I just … I wanted to protect you.”

_From the public, or from you?_ “I’m not a child, Elsa. I don’t need you to make decisions on my behalf.”

“You’re still my sister.” She left the implication unspoken, as she always did, and quickly added: “ _And_ my subject. I’m your queen, protecting you is part of my job.” With pleading eyes she looked up at her, gently touching an icy hand to Anna’s cheek. “Perhaps if we gave people some time to … get all this out of their system, to see us being apart … it might help avoid the impression that I’m … taking advantage of you.”

“I understand. It’s a good idea.”

Elsa exhaled a sigh of relief. “Really? Oh, Anna, thank you. I was so afraid you’d try to fight me over this.” She tried to put on a smile. It didn’t quite work. “Who knows,” she said, trying to sound chipper, “it might even be fun. You’ve never been out of Arendelle. This is your chance to see the world. Paris, London, Vienna …” _And find a handsome prince to fall in love with instead of you, some man who isn’t my sister? Are you so afraid of yourself, of what you do to me?_

She had to smile. “I’d love to see all those places,” she admitted. “One day. With you.” Her sister seemed confused, so Anna spelled it out for her. “Elsa, I’m not going. My place is here, with you. At your side.” She did not give her a chance to protest or interject. “You cannot protect me from what I have done myself. You cannot exclude me, or take the blame, or whatever it is you’re planning. You certainly can’t send me off to the continent and hope I’ll forget about you, because I won’t. You are my sister, Elsa, my sister and my queen and my best friend my lover and my wife. _Nothing_ is going to change that, do you understand?” God, where had those tears come from? 

“I love you, Elsa. I’m no good at metaphors, but I love you the way a sister should love a sister _and_ the way a husband loves his wife. And, frankly, I don’t think there’s a difference, not one that matters. I _love_ you. It’s one love, one, not a bunch of strange different loves stapled together because I’m some poor damaged kid compensating for having her sister taken from her. It’s one, and it’s mine. And maybe I’m wrong to feel that way, but I do, and there’s no changing it. And if there is one thing that love means—one thing that I know for certain—it’s that I will not run away. That I cannot let you face this on your own. I won’t.” She leaned in to kiss Elsa’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

There was no response. The old grandfather clock in the library ticked and tocked and ticked again. Anna’s throat seemed to constrict. Had she gone too far? _Whoo, good job, Anna, you_ really _showed her what a responsible adult you are with that dumb little speech._ Her heart was racing and—

Elsa was crying.

At once, she had drawn her back into her arms until she was half-seated in her lap, her gown spilling down the side of the couch. Tears, gleaming like diamonds, wetted her pale cheeks, and her slender shoulders trembled. _God, she even cries beautifully. How do I deserve you?_ Anna held her sister tightly, pressed a hundred kisses to her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. “I love you,” she whispered, “I love you I love you I love you …”

Eventually, after what seemed like hours had passed and the sun had passed below the horizon outside the frozen windows, Elsa stilled in her arms. “You’re so good to me,” she muttered into Anna’s chest. “How can you forgive me for this?” She sniffed. “I broke my promise. Again.”

“You didn’t. I wouldn’t let you.” Anna brushed her thumb across Elsa’s cheek. “That’s what us being together means, silly. That I won’t let you fight these battles alone, even against yourself.”

She leant in to kiss her sister, took her time to explore and tease and caress her lips until Elsa’s lips were burning hot against her and her fists clenched in her hair. Then, when she had her just where she wanted her, Anna drew away, leant back in the bay window, and smirked at Elsa. The annoyance and frustration in her beautiful eyes was utter delight. _Like you’re not just as worked up as she is, Romeo._ “Still think you’re taking advantage of me?”

Elsa pouted and Anna’s poor unfortunate soul fluttered forth from her breast and up to Heaven. Or whatever afterlife awaited her, anyway. “That is … not fair,” she muttered, her voice hitched and husky. “You can’t just … urgh. You’re a brat, you know that, don’t you?”

Her sister was about to push Anna down into the couch when something came to mind. “Wait,” she said, putting her fingers on Elsa’s lips as she bent over her. “I came back from my ride early because I heard from Kristoff that the palace was outfitting KNM _Valkyrjen_ to take me away. But why now? People have been talking about …” She indicated the two of them with a vague wave of her hand. “… _us_ for months.”

“Whatever happened to ‘I read the papers’?” Elsa drawled. “You’ve not been following the trial?”

She blushed. “I’ve tried to avoid it, honestly.” Every day, there seemed to be a new ‘revelation’. Most of them were utterly spurious, of course, many lurid. Under other circumstances, she might almost have been weirdly flattered by the bizarre interest Arendelle’s reading public—not to mention foreign papers—had taken in the most intimate details of her relationship. She had, in fact, kept some clippings of illustrations from an English magazine for future reference, but for the most part, it just hurt.

It hurt how everyone willing to spend two _skillings_ on a newspaper felt entitled to not only know about, but pass judgment on the most intimate, the most holy thing in her life. It hurt to see the stares, the half-hidden whispering when she rode through town, to see the love their people had once borne for her transformed into uncertainty or open revulsion like she was some sort of monster. It hurt to look into the eyes of this housemaid or that footman and not know if they were going to testify against them, if they had taken money from some hack with a notepad to lie about her—or worse, tell the truth. _Is this what Elsa felt like?_ she wondered. Her sister’s powers were as beautiful as the woman herself, and still people had called her a witch and a monster and an abomination. Well, now she was two out of those.

And then there was the trial itself. The Crown’s case had been straightforward and presented quickly: the defendant— _Nils Andersen,_ she corrected herself, _the big guy with the kind eyes—_ was simple and could not be found culpable, but as he had refused to recant his claim and insisted on his full culpability, the sole punishment permissible under the law was death. He had demonstrably said the things he had said, and continued to do so when summoned to testify before the court, even after being advised of and having apparently understood the criminality of his calumnies. That part of the trial had been quick, with the panel of judges ruling with the defence that, while simple-minded, Andersen was sufficiently lucid to stand trial.

Moreover, the Crown had argued, it was unconstitutional for the defendant to employ the defence of justification, as the facts alleged by the defence constituted criminal acts, and the Queen could, by definition, neither charge herself with nor accuse herself of a crime, and neither could her officers, which included the judges ruling in her name. This argument, too, the judges had been unconvinced by, saying that the Crown’s immunity from prosecution did not diminish Andersen’s right to present evidence in his defence.

Then the defence counsel had presented his case. Most of the major newspapers, she knew, had reprinted his opening statement in full, though Anna had not read all of it: she’d thrown the paper against the wall, screaming in frustration, before she had gotten halfway through. Making a spectacle out of their love was one thing, but the things he’d had to say about Elsa, _her Elsa,_ the kindest queen and most benevolent monarch that had ever lived, had made her livid.

And then had come the witnesses. One after another, servants, officials and guardsmen were called to the stand. People she _knew._ People she had trusted. _People you’ve hardly ever noticed because you only had eyes for your sister._ Some of them made bold claims of having directly witnessed impropriety, and Anna had been shaken to her core to find that some were true, or at least sounded true. They _had_ at one point fumbled around in a broom closet, but had it been on the third or on the fourth floor? On a Monday or a Wednesday? What about that servant there, or this guard there—were they watching them, watching for any trace of scandal?

Even staff she had considered friends, from the old days, had been summoned to the stand. _Kai and Gerda_ had been summoned to the stand, and for all their protests and defences, their testimony had not helped. Well, yes, the sisters had always been close, but—yes, sometimes they did touch each other, but chastely, and—of course the palace library included the poems of Sappho, just as it included those of—no further questions. Kai had apologised—apologised!—to her for failing to defend her better, and assured her of his continuing loyalty. He paid no stock in foul, malicious rumours, after all, and knew his mistresses to be chaste and virtuous young women. She had almost burst into tears at the revulsion in his voice.

Now, with Elsa propped up above her, staring into those deep blue eyes, she whispered: “It’s over, isn’t it?”

Her sister blinked, then rolled over so that she was half lying on the cushioned windowsill by her side. “It’s not going great,” she confided. “But it’s not over yet. The Attorney-General suggests leaning on the judges, make them see things our way, and …” She broke off. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

They stared at each other. “Elsa,” she finally said, “we’ve already lost. They know. Everyone knows, no matter what happens.” A faint smile appeared on Anna’s lips. “You know, I always wanted people to know. To be able to point at you and say ‘this is my wife.’ I just … didn’t wish for it to be like this.”

There was silence. Then, finally, Elsa pressed a gentle kiss on Anna’s brow. “Would that my magic could change the laws of nature and the hearts of men.” She rose, leaving the tips of her fingers to rest on Anna’s stomach for just a moment. “We haven’t lost yet,” she insisted. “I can still fix this.” Her features were as regal and determined as the day she had returned from the North Mountain.

And as Anna stared up at her sister, her beautiful queen, all she could think of was that Elsa could conquer the world with a kiss.

_Morgenposten_ , issue of Wednesday, 15 September 184x

_GOVERNMENT DISMISSES PRESIDING JUDGE IN ANDERSEN TRIAL_

_In a shocking development reported exclusively by the_ Morgenposten _, HM Government today dismissed the senior judge presiding over the trial of Drummer Nils Andersen, who is accused of lesé majesté among other charges for comments made about_ HM The Queen, _raising questions about the independence of the court._

_A letter seen by the_ Morgenposten _and signed by the Minister of Police,_ The Hon. Dr Inge Ramberg, _orders the judge,_ The Hon. Dr Gustav Lovdahl, _to withdraw from the case, and warns in no uncertain terms that failure to do so might force the learned judge to forego the customary ennoblement of a retiring judge upon his departure from the bench._

_This undoubtedly represents the latest but not the last outrage relating to this case. For further details, see page 2. For the_ Morgenposten’s _editorial on this unprecedent intrusion into the judicial process, see page 4. For an overview of the case to-date, see page 10. For opinions sent to us by our esteemed readership, see page 11 …_

_Aftenbladet,_ issue of Monday, 20 September 184x

_RIKSDAG CENSURES GOVERNMENT OVER JUDGE DISMISSAL_

_In a 65-48 vote, the Riksdag yesterday passed a motion of censure against the Crown over the controversial dismissal of_ The Hon. Dr Gustav Lovdahl _from the trial of the guardsman Nils Andersen, upon which we reported on Wednesday last. This unusual motion, introduced by liberal leader_ Riksdagsmann Lars Johannes Grønneberg, _represents the strongest condemnation of the Government’s handling of the Andersen trial thus far, and charged the Government to create an independent commission to oversee the appointment and dismissal of judges._

_This development comes in the wake of increasing concerns in the Riksdag regarding the Andersen trial, which liberals charge …_

_Morgenposten,_ issue of Wednesday, 22 September 184x

_JOIN THE_ MORGENPOSTEN _TO DEFEAT THE NEW CENSORSHIP LAW_

_Tomorrow, on the 23 rd, the Riksdag will vote on the new Obscene Publications Bill, which promises to upend the freedom of expression in the press in our country. In this dire situation, we find ourselves compelled to call upon our loyal readers and all friends of liberal government in Arendelle. It is a poorly-kept secret that this Bill originates not from any real concern about obscenity, but from the Crown’s desperate attempts to conceal the truth …_

_Morgenposten,_ extra of Thursday, 23 September 184x

_QUEEN DISSOLVES RIKSDAG! COUP D’ETAT UNDERWAY!_

_Around noon to-day, the debate in the Riksdag on the new Obscene Publications Bill which would reinstate censorship of the press was interrupted when none other than_ HM The Queen _burst into the chamber uninvited and held a brief and acrimonious speech. She then declared the Riksdag’s session suspended, in clear breach of the Constitution, and commanded her guards to bodily expel the members from the chamber._

_Her Majesty began her speech by most graciously thanking the members of the Riksdag for their service. Yet when members loudly protested this unprecedented intrusion upon their chamber’s privilege, the Queen instead began to harangue them in most unparliamentary terms, among the least of which were calling the stunned members a ‘vile, damnable rabble’ and ‘lecherous blackguards’, claiming that the honourable Riksdagsmenn and their ‘attack hounds’ in the press had poisoned public trust in the Crown and could no longer be trusted to advise Her Majesty on matters of law and government._

_Her Majesty then summoned her attendant guards, and made much use of her magics to the terror and confusion of all who attended …_

_Morgenposten,_ issue of Friday, 24 September 184x

_By order of the Ministry of Police, the license of this publication has been temporarily suspended pending review. God bless Queen Elsa!_

The headache would not go away.

It was dark, quiet and cold in the empty throne room. The last of the serving staff had long since gone to bed, leaving most of the palace deserted but for the occasional guardsman making his rounds. Anna, too, had fallen asleep hours ago, safe in her arms. She’d slipped out of bed around two hours past midnight, taking care not to disturb her sleeping sister, dressed and made her way here.

Which left her here, alone in the dark, sitting on the dais at the foot of her throne and massaging her temples with a fistful of snow, the crumpled letter in her hands. The full moon outside the windows provided just enough light for her to reread it over and over again … _desire to speak to Your Majesty in private … concerns of public appearances … discretion of the utmost importance …_ She groaned, crumpled the letter back up into a ball and threw it across the empty hall. Elsa had no illusions, of course, as to what the reverend gentlemen wanted to lecture her about. Another reason Anna couldn’t be here.

All the while, her head continued to pound, a low and regular beat at the back of her skull. If not for the late hour, she would have asked a maid to fetch her some willow tea, but as it was she had no recourse but time and ice. Besides, she’d probably developed an immunity to willow tea over the past weeks. Headaches were still there, anyway.

With a grown, she threw her head back unto the seat of the throne, stared up at the ceiling. The high cross-braces and carved lintels faded into the darkness, almost making it appear as though the throne room opened up into a dark, starless night sky. In the silence, she could hear the ancient logs groaning and creaking, as they always did, and for a moment Elsa found herself imagining them crashing down on her.

She was used to sitting alone in the dark, of course. But once, the sanctity of her rooms, the closed door and frozen-over windows, had brought her comfort—safety from the world outside that would hate and fear her powers. _Safety from Anna, whom you didn’t dare look in the eye._ Well, here she was—hated and feared, and about to lose Anna, too.

The dull shine of an oil painting caught her eye and she glanced up at the larger-than-life coronation portrait of their parents on the wall to the left of the throne. Mother and father looked regal, dignified, perfect. Their expressions were sombre, their eyes somewhat dull. Elsa had always thought the painter had failed to capture the warmth in their faces, even if that warmth had expressed itself as concern more often than not when it concerned her.

Her glance fell on the globus cruciger in her father’s hand. It had been so heavy in her hands, she had almost dropped it when the frost had run over it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. There was no response. “I’m so sorry, father.” Her words carried through the hall. ‘Mum and dad would be proud of you’, Anna had told her once. No, not once: a million times, whenever she had doubted herself or her reign, her sister had been there to encourage her.

Anna had struggled to come up with encouragement and supportive words for the things she’d done over the last few weeks.

“Here we are,” she muttered darkly. “Four years into my reign and I’ve turned the clock back on Arendelle by a hundred years. And all so I can …” The chuckle died in her throat. “I sure hope you’re proud of me.”

She stared at the portrait for some time, until—out beyond the windows—the church bells rang. Two in the morning, then. Elsa rose to her feet, smoothed out her dress—easy to do when it was made of ice—and sat on the throne, ramrod-straight. She grasped the armrests tightly, took a deep breath, and waited.

A few minutes later, when the last of the church bells had sounded, the door at the end of the hall opened in a sliver of light from the hallway, and a group of men stepped into the throne room. The door closed again, and they approached.

The group was larger than she had anticipated, Elsa noted darkly. Perhaps they’d already brought guards to drag her away … or to protect themselves from her. But no, these were not guards. She let her eyes sweep upon the group as they gave her a courteous bow and halted before the throne. Baron Høyjre, the foreign minister. Dr Ramberg, the minister of police. The Reverend Dr Vennerod, minister of Church affairs and education. Mr Vogt, the minister of finance and commerce. Mr Bronstad, speaker of the Riksdag—until last week, anyway. Leading them all, the man who had called them here, His Grace the Archbishop of Arendelle, Dr Schønheyder. “Good evening, gentlemen.” And, following them …

She frowned. The letter had not mentioned them. “Your Excellencies,” she said with strained courtesy. “I did not expect to see you.” The five ambassadors gave practised bows—the Comte de Mornay on behalf of the King of the French, Sir Thomas Cartwright on behalf of the Queen of Great Britain, the Count von Galen on behalf of the King of Prussia, Baron von Krüdener on behalf of the Tsar, and the Count von Thun und Hohenstein on behalf of the Emperor of Austria. She barely knew most these men—until her coronation, the diplomatic corps in Arendelle had usually served mainly as a stepping stone for junior diplomats.

“Your Majesty,” Archbishop Schønheyder said, his tone sombre. “Thank you for receiving us at this late hour.” The archbishop had been one of the few people with whom she had regularly interacted during her long confinement. Growing up, talking with him after mass had helped her work through any number of nagging doubts relating to her faith, her crown, and her powers. She could not talk to him the way she could talk to her parents, or later Anna, but he had known about her powers and had always been happy to counsel her. Later, he had taught her how to grieve her parents, even taking her to see their graves in secret a week after the funeral she had not attended. To see him here now, about to counsel her again, left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Your letter said you and some concerned colleagues wanted to speak privately,” Elsa pointed out. “I did not expect you to bring half the Privy Council, let alone the ambassadors.”

The archbishop had the grace to look contrite. “I apologise,” he said. “There was concern that you would not agree to meet if not for the deception.” She could not deny the truth of his words.

“It is we who must apologise,” the Comte de Mornay interjected. His smile was charming, but appeared ghoulish in the moonlight. “We pressed His Grace to include us in this meeting. Our countries take great interest in the fortunes of Arendelle.”

“I see,” Elsa uttered, her voice deadpan. _Not like it’s going to matter._ Then, her gaze returned to the archbishop. “Let’s get to the point, then.” She already knew what they were going to say.

The archbishop slowly nodded his head. “Very well. Your Majesty … we believe your position has become untenable, and harmful to the stability and reputation of Arendelle. We have prepared an instrument of abdication, and would request that you sign it.” Elsa closed her eyes. _This is it._ The archbishop continued in a gentler tone. “Ma’am, know that we bear you no ill will. I have always known you as a devoted and dutiful child and a good sovereign. The fact of the matter is, however, that you are in open breach of the constitution. We truly believe that, barring your abdication, we will face a full-blown revolution within the year.”

“We are all struggling to contain the sparks of revolution,” the Comte de Mornay added. “Paris is a powder keg waiting to blow, and the situation is no different in Germany, Hungary, Italy … All over Europe, radicals of all stripes—socialists, anarchists, nationalists, what have you—are just waiting for a spark to begin their bloody work. Arendelle cannot—must not—be that spark. _You,_ Your Majesty, must not be a second Bonaparte.”

_And there we have it._ Elsa abruptly rose to her feet, stepped off the dais and walked over to the window. In the moonlight, her gown glittered like a bed of diamonds, her skin was paler than fresh snow, and the trembling of her hands was barely visible. It took all she had not to plunge the room into another ice age. “I see.” She hoped the ambassadors wouldn’t hear how faint her voice was. “I understand.”

She remembered how nervous she had been, how afraid, the day of her coronation. There had been the ever-present fear of discovery, of course, and the divine terror of meeting Anna again after so many years. But below it all, there had been the anxious concern and eager desire to be a champion of her country and a bulwark to her people. She’d been so full of ideas then, had so many plans to improve the lot of her people. Once the truth about her powers had come out, she had plunged herself into modernising Arendelle, keen to make it a nation her subjects could be proud of. She had reformed the civil service and the prisons, set up factories and workhouses, modernised the navy and built Arendelle’s first railway line. She had protected the liberties her father had granted his people, and expanded them in some respects.

She’d had a good run, hadn’t she? But then she’d just had to ruin things. All it had taken had been one slip-up, one careless moment of abominable sin, and her reign had been ended. No matter her powers, no matter her good intentions, her own crimes had necessitated her fall. _At least Anna will do better than me,_ she assured herself. _She’ll hate it, but she’ll be a better queen than I could ever be._

Then, she took a deep breath. “I swore an oath to defend and protect Arendelle. If that is best served by stepping aside and letting my sister take the throne, I will do it.”

“Apologies, Your Majesty—we did not make ourselves clear.” Sir Thomas stepped forward. “In light of the … nature of the accusations against you, Her Royal Highness would be no less of a problem than yourself. We require you to renounce not just your own claim on the throne of Arendelle, but that of the entire House of Arendelle in perpetuity.”

Elsa froze. The spots where her fingertips rested on the windowpane iced over. “A regent will be appointed while the _Riksdag_ and the Great Powers deliberate on a suitable king. I believe there are a number of eligible princes in the Southern Isles who might be received well by your people,” the Count von Galen added. If he noticed her shoulders tensing up, or the rosettes of ice on the windowpane growing, he did not give any sign of it. “Rest assured, Your Majesty, that we will not choose a king who is insensible to the wishes and wellbeing of your people.”

_God._ Eyes closed, she pressed her forehead to the windowpane to steady herself. _I’m sorry, father. Anna …_ That meant she would … she’d have to discuss this with Anna, wouldn’t she? Her intention had been to abdicate and slink away to her ice palace in the mountains like a thief in the night, trusting that her sister would understand and hopefully leaving her safe both from the mob and from her own sister’s perversions. That might have been wishful thinking, admittedly, but it was better than having to explain to Anna exactly why she had to hoist the crown upon her and _leave her_ yet again. _And now I’m going to steal her birthright?_

Her throat was dry when she tried to reply. “I will … I will need to discuss this with my sister,” she rasped.

The archbishop nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty. We would be happy to grant you a day to consider your options.”

“If you agree,” Sir Thomas continued, “my government has authorised you to offer you asylum, with an annuity of four thousand pound sterling for yourself and three thousand pound for Her Highness, funded by the Arendellian treasury. HMS _Active_ is presently in the harbour and stands ready to take you to England on the morrow. From there on, I am at liberty to offer you passage to a British colony outside of Europe. You may enjoy Newfoundland, I believe.”

Elsa could not prevent a manic chuckle from escaping her throat. “My very own St. Helena.”

“You would not be a prisoner, Your Majesty, on the understanding that you make no attempt to return to Europe. As for Her Royal Highness, the Southern Isles have agreed to host her …”

A shock ran through her body. She whirled around, her skirts a flurry of snow and ice, and stared at the ambassador, wide-eyed. “Wait,” she said. “You mean to … to separate us? Halfway across the world? And send Anna … _there?_ ” She broke off. Often had she told herself that Anna needed distance, space to grow into her own. But to send her off on her own to that viper’s nest, to _Hans?_ With her an ocean away, unable to come to her aid? Never.

The ambassadors shared a meaningful look as the Arendellians shifted uncomfortably. Finally, the Count von Thun und Hohenstein spoke, his tone careful and halting. “There have been … concerns. About the … propriety of allowing Your Majesty and Her Royal Highness to continue to interact. We believe that it cannot be permitted.”

She stumbled over to the throne, blind to their judgment, grasped the backrest to steady herself. Darkness filled her vision, the ache in her skull had intensified into a constant drumroll. “And the … the Great Powers are agreed on this?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Baron von Krüdener confirmed. He was a new appointee to her court, and spoke imperfect Arendellian. His eyes were cold and harsh with distaste for her, perhaps the reason he had let the other ambassadors handle most of the talking. “All five powers are in agreement that your … _reign_ must come to an end.” The pause left no doubt that he had intended to use rather a different word.

Elsa leant on the throne for support, trying to control her breathing. _Anna will never agree to this,_ she knew. As for herself … she ground her teeth, straightened herself. “I … thank you for your candour. I will speak plainly, then,” she pressed forth, and turned to face the delegates, her glare a pair of icy daggers. “It will not happen. I would rather freeze the very ocean than allow it to separate my sister and me. I would rather plunge all of Europe into eternal winter than allow Anna to be thrown to the wolves like that, at the mercy of a hostile foreign king for her every need. And I would rather _die_ than lose her to the Southern Isles again.”

Count von Galen stepped forward. “Be reasonable, Your Majesty. This is the most honourable exit available to you. King Harald is not going to let any harm befall …”

But Baron von Krüdener cut him off. “ _Lass es sein, Ferdinand, es hat keinen Sinn,_ ” he said in German, and crossed himself. “ _Die Eiskönigin will ihre Hure lieber sterben seh’n als loslassen._ ”

Elsa blinked. Her heart stilled.

The ambassador was dead before he hit the ground, a footlong spike of ice embedded in his skull. “I believe we are finished here,” Elsa growled, even as her stomach turned. “Now get out.”

The cell was small, but he had made it home.

Every day, Drummer Nils Andersen thanked the Lord: for the little window facing south that let in the sunlight. For the kindness of the guards who often let him stroll around the fortress in the afternoon. For the guests who came to visit him, who at least gave him good company though few seemed to genuinely care about him. But most of all, he thanked God for every day that he was allowed to live.

After his trial had turned for the worse with the appointment of a new judge, he had half expected any new day to be his last. Dr Viken had half-heartedly continued his legal manoeuvres, but neither of them had seen Mr Asbjørnsen since the censorship law had passed. Nils couldn’t blame him—from the sound of it, and what he had understood of it, he was in almost as much trouble as himself. He had only a vague idea of what was happening outside the fortress walls—politics wasn’t for the likes of him—but it did not sound good.

But what was the use of worrying? Whether he died today or tomorrow, he had no power to affect.

His cell was small, but he had made it home: with the aid of Dr Viken and certain of his visitors from the public, he had put up a calendar and a small wooden cross on the newly-whitewashed walls. The fortress’s chaplain had provided him a small Bible, and he had made some effort to read it, but as always he soon found the letters swimming and blurring before his eyes, so he had reverently placed it on the table and not touched it since. He had, additionally, been allowed to keep fresh flowers his visitors brought him in a vase on the windowsill, which brought some much-needed colour to the cell.

He was still bored, but there was nothing to be done about that. At the very least, he got a lot more sleep here than in the barracks of his regiment. That was a plus, even if he spent most of his days lying in bed staring at the ceiling.

It was the evening of the tenth, the Lord’s Day, when a knock on his cell’s door woke him up from his daze. He startled—he had already had dinner, and it was too early for lights-out. “Andersen,” a voice called from beyond the door, “visitor for you. Up against the wall.” Quickly, Nils rose, haphazardly straightened out the blanket on his cot and stood at attention against the back wall. “Ready, sir,” he called out and waited. The door window was pulled open for the guard to look inside, then he disappeared again and unlocked the door.

And in walked an angel.

The Queen’s presence seemed to fill the little cell with light. Her icy gown and tiara glittered like a million diamonds. Her skin and braided hair were whiter than snow, her eyes shone like deep mountain lakes. She held herself regally as she drifted into the room, hands folded in front of her. But there was apprehension in her eyes. Nils stood at attention, shivers running down his spine as Queen Elsa let her eyes take in the extent of his home. Then, finally, she said: “Leave us.” The guard closed the door behind her and they were alone.

He was unsure if he should say anything. As a guardsman, he had been trained not to speak unless spoken to. Did different rules apply when the Queen herself had come to visit you in your prison cell? He couldn’t exactly offer her a seat, could he?

The Queen, thankfully, had no such inhibitions. “Stand at ease, Mr Andersen. And, please, sit.” Hesitantly, he did as she asked, sitting down on the edge of his bed as the Queen took a seat on his rickety wooden chair, as straight-backed and dignified as though it was a throne. He suddenly felt acutely aware of his state of undress—he was wearing a forage cap, fatigue trousers and a shirt smock. Surreptitiously, he wiped off some leftover breadcrumbs from dinner. Nervously, he removed his cap and twisted it in his hands, studying the Queen.

He had, of course, seen her before—often from a distance, strolling in the gardens or riding out into town. A few times, from up close, when she inspected the troops. And once, that night in the gardens, more closely than any good Christian should have seen his queen and sovereign. At the memory, he flushed furiously and stared at the floor. No matter how often he had to recite that story, it always made him uneasy.

Queen Elsa sighed. “At ease,” she repeated. “I apologise for the intrusion. But I … I needed to talk with you.”

Silently, he stared at his feet. She hadn’t asked him a question, so he was unsure of whether he was permitted to respond.

The Queen looked around the room. “Are you being treated well?”

“A-ah, yes, Your Majesty. I ain’t got no complaints.”

“Good. That’s good.”

They sat there for a while, neither of them sure of what to say. Nils wondered why she had come—he knew that, through his testimony, he had caused her no small amount of difficulty, though that had never been his intention. She had not come to accuse him, he was rather certain, which left only one explanation.

“I guess they’ll be hangin’ me come mornin’.”

The Queen lowered her eyes. “I’m afraid so. The execution has been arranged for tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock.”

“Right.” It was not unexpected, after all. Hearing about it in advance, he supposed, gave him a change to prepare himself. There were some people he wanted to thank for their kindness before they did it. “Thanks for tellin’ me, Your Majesty.”

Queen Elsa’s hands seized into tight fists in her lap, she bit her rosy lip. “It’s not too late,” she said, quietly. “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want to kill anyone else. But I have to if … if there’s a chance it can help undo the damage I’ve done. I can pardon you at the stroke of a pen. All I need you to do is recant your statements. Maybe if—maybe if you told everyone you made it up, or that you’d misremembered …”

She broke off, and Nils could tell she was near tears, which was confusing. He had never liked seeing girls cry, but to see the _Queen_ like this … it was like seeing an angel cry. He was unsure of what to do, what to say, or even if he was at liberty to do or say anything at all. Still, he had to say something, right? “Ma’am …” He swallowed. “It’s gonna … please don’t cry, ma’am.”

The Queen chortled at that. “Oh,” she made, “Oh, my. I’m sorry. You must think I’m quite pathetic.” With a wave of her hand, she drew a handkerchief from thin air in a flurry of snowflakes—Nils gasped in amazement—and dried her tears.

“No,” he hurried to say, genuinely troubled by her self-depreciation. “not at all, ma’am. Beggin’ your pardon, but you shouldn’t be sayin’ stuff like that. You’re the _Queen_ , you’re … you’re an _angel,_ ma’am. Holy as the Virgin, good as the infant Christ. Sent by God. There ain’t nothing pathetic about you.”

The look the Queen gave him could only be described as incredulous. Then, she chortled, bitter and fragile. “You really believe that, don’t you? God …” She shook her head. “I’m about to execute you. To start a war. I’m already a murderer. I killed the Russian ambassador. Cold-blooded murder. He had said something unspeakable about Anna and I wasn’t even thinking, I just … I just did it. And when I told Anna, she just said she didn’t blame me, that she would have done the same thing if he’d said that about me. Just think of that. I’m turning my sweet baby sister who couldn’t hurt a fly into a murderer by my example! And you … you … _saw_ us that night. Violating another woman, my own _sister._ How can you call me an ‘angel’? What is good, what is holy about me?” The words burst forth from her lips so full of anger, he startled. She stared at him a moment when he did not immediately reply, then looked away. Her eyes shone with tears. “I am a monster. Everyone already knows it except you.”

Instinctively, Nils reached out to touch her shoulder. “That ain’t true, ma’am. You’re a good queen, and a good person.” Realising what he was doing, he hastily removed his hand. “I don’t know anything about the other stuff. I know I don’t wanna die, but you came down here to save me. I don’t think you’re a monster, ma’am. And I don’t think Her Highness does, either.”

The Queen startled. “Anna is …” She broke off, but Nils could see the change that had come over her features. He had seen that expression before, early in his soldiering career. A fellow recruit had, for some reason or other, caught the ire of the _fanejunker,_ who had made it his mission to see him dead or discharged. Queen Elsa’s expression matched that of the unfortunate lad, just before he’d finally punched back. Fear, warning, and cold calculation—cornered prey about to lash out.

But it was too late to back down now. “I only saw you for a moment,” Nils said. “And I, uh, I don’t know much about—‘bout that sorta thing, beggin’ your pardon. But I, er, I did see the way Her Highness was lookin’ at you.” The Queen glared at him, and Nils became acutely aware of how easily she could have him hang. Well, hang earlier. He pressed on. “You ain’t no monster to her. She knows you’re an angel, too. She _loves_ you. And nothin’s gonna change that.” He swallowed. “Beggin’ your pardon.”

The Queen seemed to deflate at that. “She shouldn’t,” she whispered. “Not after everything I’ve done to her. Not in the first place. It’s … what we feel—what I’ve made her feel—is unnatural. Vile. Who _does_ that to her own little sister?”

Nils shifted on the edge of the bed. Love and, er, intimacy, were not subjects he was personally familiar with. “I dunno about any of that stuff,” he said. “I just try to do my best to be a good Christian. But … ma’am, Her Highness _wanted_ that. To be there with you, I mean. Like that. Even I could tell that. And you looked happy—both of you. Happier than I’ve ever seen you in public. That’s gotta be somethin’ the Lord Jesus approves of, right?” Queen Elsa stared at her hands. “Look, I know it’s queer. I don’t really understand how it works, what with you two both bein’ of the female persuasion and sisters beside. But you love each other, and you’re happy. That’s better than a lot of normal marriages, isn’t it?”

He fell silent. The Queen continued to stare at her hands, demurely resting on her knees, and Nils averted his eyes. He could tell she needed time to think, and he had gotten good at waiting over his long imprisonment.

Finally, after what seemed like hours had passed, the Queen looked up at him. The sun had set and the gas light on the ceiling had been ignited. In the bright light, she looked like a ghost. Her eyes were dull and red. “For a fool,” she murmured, “you’re rather perceptive, aren’t you, Mr Andersen?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry.”

“No, please—it is I who should apologise. That was … I appreciated it.” Slowly, she shook her head. “I have ruined your life for my selfish—to keep our secret. I have literally condemned you to death. And yet here you are, comforting me and giving me better advice than any priest or councillor I have met. Now if only the rest of the world thought as you do.”

“I tried telling them,” Nils confessed. “That I didn’t think you’d done anything wrong. I don’t think they cared, though.”

“No, I don’t suppose they would.” The Queen sighed. “And now there is going to be war. With Russia in either case, and the rest of the Great Powers are sure to join them. I’d abdicate, but then Anna …” She swallowed, broke off. “Mr Andersen—Nils … we cannot go into this war a divided nation. I know that this is my fault and that it is cruel and tyrannical to make my people suffer for my own failings. I know I can never regain the trust of my people, just … please, Nils. Tell them you were wrong. That you and the press drove me to what I did. I swear to God Almighty and all His saints that I will pardon you. Shower you and your family with riches—discreetly, of course. Anything you want. I just … I just need a way back from this. I beg you.”

He lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said, quietly. “I wish I could. But I’m no liar. Liars go to Hell.”

On the morning of Monday, 11 October 184x, the Drummer Nils Andersen of the 2nd (Queen’s Own) Regiment of Foot Guards was driven out of Arenfjord Fortress in an open Landau, accompanied by the fortress commander and a small complement of guards on horseback. The prisoner had been ordered to wear his full uniform, but with the insignia of his regiment and the drummer’s markings removed. A scaffold and gallows had been erected at the centre of the palace square, already ringed by the assembled men of the 1st and 2nd Regiments of Foot Guards. They stood silently, long lines of soldiers in green tunics and bearskins, rifles shouldered. Soon, they would be marching off to war, but before that time, they would be required to observe the death of a comrade. Beyond them, the square was crowded with civilians, thousands of them, held back by yet more soldiers. But as soon as the Queen had ridden into the square, a dead silence had fallen over the masses.

Elsa kept her eyes fixed on the gallows as the Landau rolled into the square, trying to ignore them. _Conceal,_ she told herself once again, her parents’ mantra echoing in her head. _Don’t feel._ The horse underneath her paced restlessly as though it was well aware of what was about to happen, and she gripped the rein and whip so tightly they were covered in ice. The sole mercy, she supposed, was that Anna was not here to witness her final fall from grace.

The drummers played a slow, dire march as the carriage rolled up to the scaffold. Over the drumbeats, she could hear faint talking. The condemned stepped off the carriage and saluted the fortress commander, then exchanged a few words with the priest before crossing himself. He was just close enough that she could make out the features of his friendly face, and Elsa’s stomach turned. It was a good thing she had neither slept nor eaten since meeting the soldier the previous night.

Andersen stepped up onto the scaffold. The drums ceased, and silence once more fell over the square. He was followed by the executioner, the priest, and the officer of the law. The latter removed his hat and produced from the interior of his coat a small paper. When he spoke, his voice carried throughout the square.

“According to the laws of the realm, it is provided as follows: if any citizen, subject, or other person in the realm shall defame, insult, or threaten the king, queen, the heir-apparent, or the regent, he shall suffer death. It is further provided that if any in the realm speaks falsely intending to deprive the Queen of her crown, this shall encompass the crime of seditious libel, and he shall be punished by death. Nils Andersen, you have been found by the court guilty of defaming your Queen. You have further been found guilty of seditious libel. In accordance with the aforesaid laws of the realm, you are condemned to death by being hanged by the neck until dead.”

The eyes of the condemned caught hers across the crowd as he stepped forward to have the noose placed around his neck. _Please,_ she tried to communicate to him. _It is not too late._ There was a drumroll and the executioner moved to the lever, awaiting the signal from the officer of the law.

Nils Andersen smiled at her from guileless blue eyes, and he slowly, imperceptibly shook his head. Elsa’s heart stopped, but she forced herself to keep looking. She had to watch. She had to.

Then, Andersen said, in a voice so loud and clear it echoed across the square: “Long live Queen Elsa—God bless you, and your princess too!”

She collapsed in the saddle and burst into tears. She did not see him fall.

Gute Nacht, ihr Marmelstein,  
ihr Berg und Hügelein,  
Gute Nacht, ihr Offizier,  
Korporal und Musketier.  
Gute Nacht, ihr Offizier,  
Korporal und Grenadier,  
ich schrei mit heller Stimm,  
von euch ich Urlaub nimm,  
Gute Nacht.

| 

Good night, you stones of marble,  
you mountains and you hills,  
good night, you officers,  
corporals and musketeers.  
Good night, you officers,  
corporals and grenadiers,  
I cry out loud and clear:  
I take my leave of you,  
good night.  
  
---|---


End file.
